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by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-22
Updated: 2011-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:45:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three time Erik took care of Charles, and one time Charles took care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Nah](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1724204) by [eurydike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eurydike/pseuds/eurydike)



> Told out of chronological order.

**Four.**

The mansion is quiet; no lights save for what Charles needs to read by. The lamp casts deep yellow onto his skin, creating the illusion – if only briefly – of the man he was. Erik muses as he watches that he can see the dark, thick hair, the easy smile, the gesturing hands, laughter, _moving legs._

Charles speaks without looking up. “That was a long time ago, old friend. I have moved past it – as you should.” He smiles and raises his head, the lamp winking on the skin that is still smooth after all this time. He activates the chair and comes out from behind his desk. “Where have you been now?”

Erik sits on the couch and waits for Charles to reach him, his bespoke suit – so nice to have money, he thinks, although _yes, Charles, it’s shallow_ \- cut for him and black as he’s prone to wearing now, the white of his hair starker in contrast.

“The islands are lovely this time of year,” he answers, the rich baritone of his voice only more smooth with age. He gestures and Charles rises up, the other man’s watch and cufflinks giving Erik enough leverage to have him sitting with him on the couch. With Charles’ powers he could have done the same, but it’s worth the smile that blooms if only briefly on the professor’s face to have done it.

“Show off,” he says amicably. “And yet I don’t see a tan.”

He leans against Erik’s shoulder, companionably, comfortably. The children – only Jean knows, and she’s the only one that’s not going to tell – would have a heart attack were they to see their beloved professor and mankind’s greatest enemy hunkering down together.

“I am not quite so vain,” comes the rumbling answer, and Erik slides his arm about Charles’ shoulders. “You know I can’t tell you.”

“I could pluck it from you,” Charles says slowly. The lamp flickers once, but steadies itself as Erik allows the other man to rest against his collarbone, the old flare up of feelings long dead a welcome break - _rage is my ally, only that._

“Oh, noble Xavier. Don’t break my heart and be what you aren’t,” Erik answers, laughter echoing in his words. “We both know that isn’t you.” He sighs and shoves fingers through his white hair, a few strands caught on the calloused hands that can break and bend and destroy at will.

And yet he sits still, comforted, with the one person that he still doesn’t feel the need to unleash that power on. Never, never, on Charles.

They sit together, Erik’s arm around Charles, not speaking, merely breathing, as the professor leans his head into Erik’s body, as close as he can get physically now without someone moving him. Erik gets a flash of the beach, the bullet, pain and blood and oh, so much remorse, but he rubs the inside of his left arm on his leg, and the remorse is gone, the numbers tattooed there no longer burning and itching.

 **Three.**

A high class hotel room, and champagne and flowers and a dark sky, so dark and ominous Erik wonders if he’s caused it just by thought. And he laughs and grips the sides of the window, looking down into the streets of Geneva as Charles, his sweater vest and tweed proper and prim, sits behind him on the bed, silent and brooding. Erik wonders if Charles is channeling him, and turns from the window.

“Could you affect the weather like this, by thought?”

“I’m a telepath, Erik, not a weather mutant.” Charles’ mood is sour, judging by the sound of his voice. “And you should come away from there.”

Erik does, though why it matters, he doesn’t know. A well placed victory over a weak US government trying to pass that stupid registration act – the first of many tries, Erik knows – has him giddy with happiness. Dark, incomplete happiness, yes, but it’s there nonetheless. He slips off his leather jacket and sits with Charles on the bed, his black polo and plain jeans such a contrast to Charles. Always different, always.

And yet.

“You need to stop smiling so much. It’s terrifying.” Charles is still moody; for a brief moment Erik wonders what could have caused it, but then shifts that worried _I still need him_ thought aside. He picks up his glass and finishes the last of the champagne in it; it’s warm but it’s still smooth and makes him smile that terrifying grin again.

Charles won’t look at him. Finally Erik sighs and slides over, his hand on Charles’ arm. “Truce?”

“I like it when you drink. It makes you so amicable.”

He snorts a laugh. “Don’t get used it. I don’t trust you well enough for that.” He stops laughing, because he remembers a time when he did.  
Charles merely turns the top half of his body away from Erik, moving his legs with his hands. He struggles a bit, but Erik doesn’t help him; knows from experience – he’d only tried once – that Charles will not abide that.

He switches off the light and kicks off his shoes, then lays down behind the smaller man, hand slipping from Charles shoulder to his waist, the fingers finding their way between Charles’ vest and his shirt. His hand rises and falls with the other man’s breathing, and Charles’ hair gets stuck to his lips as Erik moves his head closer. The thunder rumbles outside and they lay together in the brilliant blackness of the room, Erik’s fingers sometimes moving in small, unnamed patterns on Charles’ fabric covered stomach.

Eventually Charles pushes back against Erik’s torso and they both sleep, easily.

 **Two.**

The hospital smell is noxious and overwhelming. Erik easily knocks the guard outside of Charles’ room out by clonking his head against the metal frame of the door, lifting a hand and letting the fat man slide to the ground without a sound.

He shuts and bolts and the door behind him with a gesture, the room large and echoing with the beeping of the machines they’ve got Charles hooked up to. He wouldn’t have known about this had he not taken the helmet off before he was ready, but he is Magneto and he doesn’t fear others powers or thoughts.

Least of all, he didn’t think he did.

Charles looks small and broken in the bed, like a toy someone forgot to put away at the end of a long summer day. Erik approaches, feeling unsure, but his step is like steel and he stops at the edge of the bed, his fingers gripping the frame. It makes a small screech, and Charles sighs without meeting his gaze.

“I didn’t call for you.”

“I don’t care.”

Erik moves to the side of the bed where Charles’ hand is laying face down; the IV drips slowly into it, and Erik picks up the chart and reads, impassionate face, slamming heart. _No, Erik. You did this._

Charles’ blue eyes watch him finally, and Erik sets the chart down. He reaches out and touches the other man’s hair, a light skimming over the thick darkness of it. Charles swallows, audibly, and lifts the bruised slender hand to Erik’s arm. “Why?”

The lids that cover Erik’s eyes are veined and red and he licks dry lips before answering. “Charles,” he whispers. _Why what?_

He crosses to the other side of the bed, his shoes tapping hollow points on the floor, and lays on top of the covers, his hand hovering, waiting –

Charles reaches for it, and tugs Erik to his back, and Erik’s face is buried in Charles’ neck and he tries to think of an answer to that question that is impermanent, impossible, more hurtful than _you’re not alone._ Charles shifts against Erik and clutches at Erik’s hands with both of his, Erik murmuring _be careful with that_ as the IV brushes his fingers.

A tiny noise, a cough – or is it a sob? And Charles tucks Erik’s hands under his own arms, chilled flesh and empty nerves and they lay there, staring into the dark, Erik’s eyes staring so hard they dry and stick, Charles letting his slip shut, covering the visuals of the world he doesn’t have to see to remember.

 **One.**

Too much port and too many hours in front of the tiny television, watching Kennedy give his address looped over and over again. Erik thinks about the plan he and Charles have concocted, wondering just how quickly they’ll be killed if they don’t succeed. And wondering what he’ll do when he’s at last faced with Shaw and the vengeance he’s become – Magneto, master of what? Of pain? Failure? A neverending chase that leads him to one dark corner of the earth after another?

He stumbles to the room he thinks is his and opens the door, finding a hell of a lot of books and a warm, soft lamp that hurts his eyes with its cheeriness. “Sorry, Charles,” he stutters, but Charles is out of his seat and taking Erik by the arm before he can leave. The _snick_ of the door closing is loud and painful and Erik reels, the bottle in his hand – where did the wine come from? – sloshing against the glass. He doesn’t drink to excess; never has, as it dulls the mind and hides things that need to be seen. Or maybe it lets things free he doesn’t need freed.

“What’s this? You don’t share with me now?” the admonishment is soft and full of a tone so light Erik winces. “Don’t,” he starts, “don’t be – ”

Charles takes the bottle from him, setting it down on the table. “Come with me,” he murmurs, his smoking jacket and glasses making him seem ridiculously old. Erik laughs, a bit too vibrate-y for his taste (his chest buzzes with the sound) but he allows Charles to lead him to the large four poster in the corner of the room. Sitting, Erik looks at Charles askance as the other bends and unlaces the sneakers Erik’s been wearing all day. Simple clothing, odd and non-fitting, and Erik wiggles his toes when they come free from the socks. A confusing babble of voices rumbles in his head; _Herr Doktor and Mama and I’m going to count to three, and you’re going to move the coin_ all mixed into one loud cacophony of insistent wailing. He blinks and shakes his head and shoves Charles away from him, but the other man climbs over him onto the bed – too soft, too familiar – and settles next to him as he’d done in the strip club and the many places they’d spent the night, looking for mutants the country over. Road trip, he’d called it. Erik laughs again, this time letting it peter out as Charles clicks off the lamp and takes his jacket and glasses off.

“Sleep,” he says, the tone _professor X_ so unlike what Erik is used to (harsh things, cold things, he can match those things with his own power) that a sob catches in his throat. No, not that.

He turns over on his side and his arm supports his head, his brain whirling and full of a miasma of pain. Waves of salty tears rock on his own beach and he bites his tongue, the hated feelings not allowed to be there anymore. He is power and vengeance and that is all he needs.

That is all he needs until Charles slides behind him, his legs pressing against Erik’s, his hands with their long, tapered intelligent fingers moving to map over Erik’s chest gently, if only for a few moments before they settle over his heart. Erik stiffens, tries to move. Charles raises his hands off Erik, waiting, not holding, not fighting Erik’s quick motions. The room is dark and Erik sits half up, panting, fear racing and winning over the anger. But then there’s something else, and it’s calm and quiet and he slowly lays back down, letting Charles put his hands back where they were, and silently Erik closes his eyes as Charles’ scent and feel roll over him, replacing the waves of salt in his mind.

He tentatively touches one of Charles’ hands, and the other man turns it palm up, and Erik slides his fingers through Charles’.  
He sleeps, pressed to _calm_ and he does not dream, their bodies lined up perfectly, evenly, tinder and flame, Charles and Erik, simply.


End file.
